AN HOUR LATER, AFTER EVALUATING all possible setbacks, there was Martin alone, with the gun lent by Carl Benedetti tucked into the grimy holster strapped to his side, taking his first steps down the street described in the message.
Rarely in his career had he experienced such real, immediate and unpredictable fear. An analyst in the Criminal Investigation Division who had spent most of his time conducting investigations after the events, or searching for data and information that could predict possible criminal consummations, had not had the chance to face many situations where he could come face to face with the danger of death.
The only reason he had to go through with this enigmatic meeting was the profile of the message he had received, which matched the possible informant who had previously sent him other information. Martin even believed that the fact that the man had gone to such great lengths to leave the message was more to show his identity—as someone extremely capable—than to make any other kind of impression.
This couldn't be a trap, it wouldn't make sense to do something like that, if it was a murderer or someone like that, he would just have to find them where they were at that moment to kill them all, which would certainly be more interesting to him. There was a reason for making such an invitation, and he would find out that soon...
The final stretch of Java Street was a bit peculiar, the kind of street that would be perfect for a scene from a noir crime film . Barely paved, the street was made up of cobblestones, which gave it its own identity compared to the many similar streets in New York. Surrounded by industrial buildings and completely deserted in those days of terror, due to the collapse in which the country found itself, it was not at all inviting for a meeting, or, in this case...
Perfect for that.
THE FREEZING WIND from the East River ran unhindered between the dirty and aged red brick walls of the empty street, and touched the skin of his face as if it were a sharp and scourged kiss. His eyes burned and watered, in an effort to protect themselves from the touch of the dry air that attacked everything it touched.
Martin just kept going, one step after another, moving forward on that dead street under the cloudy sky of a gloomy morning. Without knowing the exact place, he just walked, waiting for someone to call him and invite him to come in, or to die.
All the doors and shutters were securely closed, as were the windows of every building and warehouse. The city looked abandoned, deserted, like he had never seen before. He walked to the end and turned left, as had been said in the message, along the canopy by the riverside, until he finally found a door, made of solid iron, half open.
He pushed open the door covered in graffiti and signs of age and entered the dark warehouse he noticed ahead. He was still taking his first step into the darkness when he heard someone say:
— Please close the door.
The fright, already preceded by the nervousness he felt, was so great that he could not hold back the vocal spasm and the sudden inspiration, letting out a short howl, overcome by fear, like a frightened child. He was not the type to get involved in big confrontations, definitely not. From his voice, he deduced that he was a man of certainly advanced age. His way of speaking seemed bored by many years of living.
— Thank you. — said the man, seeing him close the door as he had asked. — I apologize for the poor choice of location. It doesn't look very inviting, I admit, but I don't have many options lately.
Martin held the revolver at eye level and walked, with difficulty because of his still recent wounds, towards him so that he could see the person speaking to him.
The only light in the place came from the transparent tiles above, but it was weak, due to the gloomy morning with a heavily cloudy and stormy sky that day. His corneas were making an immense effort to adapt to the vision in that dark place.
As he got closer, Martin could then see better who the mysterious man was. Sitting in one of the chairs in that factory environment, he saw a gentleman, already advanced in age, but with a very lucid appearance, even with his thinning hair and beard completely white. He watched him approach as if he knew him very well and knew that he would never have the courage to shoot him in cold blood, as if even by pointing that gun, Martin posed no danger.
— I even considered not coming, — said the old man.
— Who are you? — Martin asked, still very restless.
— You still don't know? — and he laughed.
— So you're Dr. Payne?
The old man gave a modest laugh of satisfaction and said:
— You are a good and devoted boy, a good child of old Evans. That is why I chose your friend, though I regret it.
— What do you mean? What do you want from him? — Martin said, already facing the old man, and still pointing his gun at him. — Is there anyone else here?
— One question at a time, — said the doctor. — I'm a tired old man... Calm down, boy, I won't hurt you, if that's what you fear!
Martin lowered his gun and asked:
— Is there anyone else here?
— No, we avoid walking together. I'm certainly alone, but I can't guarantee you anything.
The man spoke strangely, with lucid statements amidst others so contradictory, he seemed to want to confuse him, to leave him lost in the middle of the dialogue.
Typical of someone who wants to manipulate a dialogue...
— I'm not here for jokes. — Martin said, trying to show some composure. — Were you the one who sent that information to Greg earlier?
— Let's just say it was all at my request. — said the old man between coughs. — Handling these new computers, systems and so many other complicated things nowadays is not something I have any interest in. I'm not exactly a lover of codes and cryptography... Sit down there, please. I would certainly prefer Mr. Evans, but he is taking care of our mutual friend.
"Tell me," Martin continued, sitting cautiously in another nearby chair, "what did you mean by choosing Greg? What do you regret?"
Robert Payne stroked his thick white beard and shifted in his seat with a calmness Martin could not understand.
— I chose Gregory Evans because I needed someone like him. There are only a few of us, and each one provides a specific and important help. We cannot afford to lose anyone, not at such a critical moment... That is why we work hidden, alone, and immersed in the unknown. He would be our field agent, young man, the one who would get closest, the one who would press the bomb button, if you understand me correctly.
He paused briefly, forcing a clearing of his throat, and took a deep breath to continue:
— Forgive me for being so blunt, but you would be the harmless risk, the disposable agent, the piece we can risk without compromising the game.
— I guess so...
— I needed to find someone who was shrewd enough to understand my messages, decipher the riddles and put the pieces of the puzzle together.
— Is that why you chose Greg?
— I found Mr. Evans some time ago, an unusual intelligence among these lazy people of today... I ask you to take this as a compliment.
— He's certainly the type who loves that kind of praise.
—However, it was in this aspect that I regretted it. Everything needs to have a right measure, and he was too smart, he investigated more than he should have, he looked for information about things he didn't need. And with that, he ended up revealing to them the crumbs of my trail. The very thing that would serve to hide me in the shadows was the one that ended up revealing my steps to the enemy. Ironic, isn't it?
— I'm sorry, — said Martin, confused and embarrassed. — but what do you want to tell me with all this? Who are you? Who are these people you're running away from? What did you need me for?
— Four questions at once... — said the old man, clearing his throat too much. — What do you think I am? A machine? — and he continued. — There are many forces acting in this world, my young man. The real actors are still behind the scenes. Absolutely opposing forces that permeate the biases of history, altering its course according to their interests. That's why everything is in this shit!
Martin remained silent, trying to interpret what the old man was telling him. He wondered if all of this was the result of lucidity or tiredness from the advanced age that the man in front of him seemed to have reached.
Robert Payne continued:
— Forgive me for my colloquial slip, but there was no better definition in my feeble mind at the moment. We have no name and we cannot tell you one either. Just think of us as a resistance, a point of balance in this sea of madness that surrounds us. Regarding your second question, there are many arms in the world, many enemy agents among themselves. Some we chase, others we must flee from. We are too fragile to face the Council of Pandora.